


America's Golden Boy

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite everything that Bucky endured as the Winter Soldier, one constant remains: his need to make sure Steve Rogers is safe.</p><p>Unfortunately, Steve is very good at taking ridiculous risks with his own life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to pangallimaufry and neverrwhere for the beta!

_Where’s Steve?_

Central Park was in chaos, thick plumes of smoke rising from winter-bare trees now leafed in tongues of flame. Dark brown craters scarred the earth like the killing fields of the war the Winter Soldier — _Bucky_ — remembered only at the edges of his mind. The quinjet’s engines kicked up a storm of mud and broken branches as it landed fifty meters away from the man at the center of the chaos.

One man. _Not Steve._

The overcast sky worked in Bucky’s favor, diffusing the midday light, allowing him to slip from shadow to shadow unseen, not that anyone was looking in his direction. Most of the civilians had long since run; the rest scattered like cockroaches when lightning slammed into the earth beside the quinjet, resolving itself into the shape of a huge man ripped right from the covers of a Viking romance novel.

 _“Loki! Cease these foolish games at once!”_ he shouted, which confirmed his identity. HYDRA’s files on Thor had been sketchy at best; they had no agents in Asgard. Just in case, Bucky put another twenty meters between himself and the God of Thunder before he went back to his actual mission: finding Steve.

This whole damn mess was proof that Steve had learned nothing since he’d been a child, belligerently taking any excuse to pick a fight. _Those_ memories had come back to Bucky in force, once HYDRA’s programming had started to degrade. Someone would say something stupid, Steve would pick a fight, and Bucky would rush to the rescue before Steve could get his ass kicked.

Only this time, it looked like Bucky had failed.

He’d been two minutes behind Steve. _Two minutes_. He’d gone to the window of his safehouse outside Avengers Tower just in time to see Steve’s motorcycle disappear, weaving through traffic, heading north. Bucky had rushed after him, but only the rising smoke from burning trees had hinted at Steve’s location in Central Park.

Hinted. Not pinpointed.

Finally, over the shouts and bangs of the Avengers’ combat with Loki, Bucky risked calling, “Steve!”

Bushes rustled, nowhere near the combat. Was it Steve or a scared civilian, trying to hide? _Steve_ wouldn’t hide. He had absolutely zero self-preservation instinct, and there was no tactical advantage to be gained here, so far from the battle.

Bucky’s heart lurched in his chest. Was Steve injured? Thanks to the serum, there was no injury that Steve couldn’t eventually heal, but he could still be in pain.

The battle was still going strong. Why weren’t the other Avengers looking for Steve? They had to know that he’d run off ahead of them.

Jaw clenched, Bucky looked back toward the bushes. He hadn’t yet made contact with Steve. He wasn’t ready. And despite how much time Steve and his friend spent hunting him, _Steve_ wasn’t ready.

But if Steve was hurt, and no one was coming to help him...

Bucky had no choice. He threw one last glance toward the battle, making sure everyone was occupied. Then, bracing himself, he bolted for the underbrush.

 

~~~

 

Steve hadn’t ached like this for years — decades, by the calendar, though he still had trouble wrapping his mind around the shift in centuries, especially right now. With a huff of effort, he rolled onto his back, only to flop back over onto his side, off-balance.

He dragged in a breath that tasted of fire and earth, of acrid chemicals and pollution thickly disguising a faint hint of grass. But the grass was a crunchy, dead yellow, as were the leaves clinging to the bushes that surrounded him.

 _Chemical attack?_ He tried again to get up, only to have his hands and feet slap the ground, because they were off to one side instead of where they were supposed to be. And when he tried to stretch his legs out, his hips ached in protest.

What the _hell_ had happened to him? Spinal damage? Could the serum repair that sort of thing? Even modern medicine, with all of its miraculous cures, couldn’t always fix the spine. What if he couldn’t walk?

He gasped in a breath full of dust, making him cough and choke. Grit coated his tongue, which was hanging out of his mouth. _Shit_. What was wrong with him?

Panic seized him. He lifted his head and thrashed, but now _nothing_ in his body was working right. When he finally got onto his stomach, his legs were tucked under himself, and his arms were —

— were —

 _They weren’t arms_.

He looked at what should have been his hands, but they were short paws, with black nails and soft gold fur, paws attached to long, skinny legs with all the wrong joints. And the next time he gasped, his tongue fell out of his mouth — his _muzzle_ — to loll down into the grass before he jerked his head up in horror.

He was a dog.

How the _hell_ was he a —

_Loki._

“Midgard’s pet lap dog,” Loki had said with a sneer, and then _something_ had happened, and now...

His ears, even more sensitive than they’d been after the serum, picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. Adrenaline (or its canine equivalent) spiked through him, and his lips curled back from what he hoped like hell were long, vicious fangs. The last thing he needed was to be one of those toy poodles shoppers carried around on Fifth Avenue like living purses.

No, the last thing he needed was to be _a fucking dog_ , no matter the breed.

Anger gave him the strength to surge upright, onto four feet instead of two, but that only lasted about half a second before he collapsed again. Too many legs, not enough thumbs, and — _fucking hell_ — he had a tail stuck to his ass, and he had no idea what to do with it.

And then, as if the day hadn’t turned strange enough, a familiar, even welcome man rushed into view.

 _Bucky_.

 

~~~

 

“Steve —”

Bucky cut off, stumbling to a stop before he could run down a dog lying in the grass beside a familiar red, white, and blue shield. Warm tan and cream fur, floppy ears, big brown eyes... A pretty dog, actually. Not an attack dog, so it took Bucky’s combat-oriented memory a few seconds to identify it as a golden retriever.

“Hey,” Bucky said warily, glancing at the shield. Wherever Steve was, he’d want — _need_ — that shield. “Good dog.”

The dog stood, or tried to, and Bucky frowned. Was it injured? It wasn’t whimpering, but it was struggling, feet kicking and flailing.

“Easy, easy,” Bucky said, crouching down to put his flesh-and-blood hand on the dog’s body. Its ribs were heaving, heart pounding so hard that Bucky could feel the _thump-thump-thump_ through its fur. He stroked down to the dog’s haunches, then did it again when the dog seemed to calm. Its fur was softer than he’d anticipated, and he curled his fingers, scratching lightly.

When was the last time he’d touched a living creature for pleasure? In combat, yes. To administer emergency first aid for soldiers he’d now willingly, even happily kill. But for pleasure? Flashes of memory: throwing an arm around Steve’s shoulders, dancing with pretty girls, laying his hand on Steve’s arm. Nowhere in his memory did he have any recollection of even touching a dog.

“Shh. Let me see if you’re hurt,” he said quietly, sitting down on the grass. He was still listening for any hint of where Steve might be, but for now, the shield and the dog were his only clues.

The dog couldn’t stand, but it could crawl. As Bucky petted one-handed, searching with his fingertips for any wounds or bones out of place, the dog slithered clumsily up against his legs, then into his lap.

No fear. No hesitation. Bucky — the Winter Soldier, HYDRA’s primary asset — had taken so many lives, had caused so much pain and suffering, but this dog didn’t care. This dog saw his presence as a kindness, a gentle touch, a caring person to help ease its fear.

Bucky’s exhale was shaky, and he tentatively, carefully touched the dog with both hands, braced against how it would surely recoil from the feel of inhuman metal fingers. But it pressed into his touch, crawling further into his lap, and he bent low so he could whisper, “Easy. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re okay now.”

The dog’s tail twitched — not quite a wag, but maybe the dog was too injured? Cradling the dog with his metal arm, he ran his other hand down the dog’s spine, probing carefully, listening for any whimper or hitched breath. But the dog just panted and tucked its muzzle between Bucky’s arm and his body.

“It’s okay, pal. It’s okay,” Bucky said, a little surprised at how soothing his voice had become. “But listen, I have to find _my_ pal. You seen Steve anywhere?”

This time, the tail movement was much more wag-like. The dog extracted its muzzle and looked up at Bucky with the biggest, saddest eyes Bucky had ever seen.

“It’s okay,” he repeated inanely. Dogs understood commands, not conversation, but... well, maybe the dog could understand his tone of voice. The dog wasn’t running loose or acting wild, so it seemed nicely domesticated. Trained. Could his luck hold enough for the dog to know how to track Steve by scent?

A wet, cold touch on the throat made him flinch in surprise. The dog huffed warm breath over Bucky’s jaw, then shoved its head onto his shoulder, muzzle buried in Bucky’s hair.

It was like a hug, and Bucky couldn’t resist the offered affection. He buried his face against the dog’s furry neck and looked at the shield that lay upside-down on the grass. There was no blood on the straps, which was a small comfort. But _where was he?_

Time to get back on mission. Bucky gave the dog a gentle shove, saying, “Okay, pal. Down. I’ve got to find Steve.”

Instead of backing away, the dog made a strangled noise like a bark that wasn’t quite successful. Any other time, Bucky would’ve laughed, but all he could think was that Steve might be in danger.

This time, his shove was less gentle. “Come on, pal. Get down.”

The dog staggered — not from Bucky’s shove, but because it didn’t seem to have full control over its legs. Was it a puppy or whatever came between puppy and adult for dogs? Juvenile, maybe. Bucky had no idea how to tell a juvenile dog from an adult.

He shook his head, distracted, and got reluctantly to his feet. He was covered with pale gold fur, more than he could brush off with his hands, not that he cared. _Steve_.

As if the dog shared his focus, it went right over to the shield. Hope blossomed warm in Bucky’s chest, and he asked, “Can you track? Track him, pal. Find Steve.”

The dog turned to look Bucky’s way — even that little motion made the dog stagger. Moving more carefully, it looked back down at the shield, then stepped on the edge. The shield rocked.

“Hey, care—”

Bucky’s warning came too late. The dog stepped on the shield again, this time hard enough that it came up off the grass and smacked the dog right in the muzzle.

_“I got this,” Steve shouted over the sound of the HYDRA artillery guns the Howling Commandos had been tasked with eliminating. He stomped on the shield so hard it flipped up, straps flying, and smashed into his face, leaving the guys — and Bucky — laughing too hard to even think about the fight ahead._

The dog snorted and sneezed, and the way it barked sounded almost like a string of curses that would’ve gotten Steve’s mouth washed out with soap, back in the hazy days when his mom had still been alive.

Hell, it sounded _exactly_ like that.

And just as Steve had done seventy-plus years ago, the dog kicked at the shield, sending it skittering over nearby tree roots. Then it jerked up its foot, wobbling on three legs, and doggie-swore some more, tucking its hurt paw close to its chest.

 _This isn’t possible_ , Bucky thought, staring at the dog. A dog had no business kicking a shield — or anything, considering how its feet were jointed — but this... this was no dog.

“Steve?”

 

~~~

 

_Obviously!_

Feeling like an idiot, Steve turned back to Bucky and nodded even though it made his ears flop in a way that was distressing, to say the least. His nose hurt as if he’d broken it, but there was nothing he could do about it. He’d actually _licked_ it before he stopped himself — something he _wasn’t_ going to do again, because ew.

Bucky dropped to his knees next to Steve, head ducked so they were eye-to-eye. He looked sallow, even a little unhealthy, but his eyes were still the same brilliant, beautiful blue. Steve leaned forward, only to overbalance and crash against him.

Strong arms came up, circling Steve’s unfamiliar body. A thousand scents engulfed Steve’s overactive nose, and he closed his eyes to better concentrate on having Bucky here with him. Bucky was safe and alive and _here_.

Being a dog was a small price to pay. Hell, Steve would _stay_ a dog if it meant he could keep Bucky at his side.

“What the _hell_ , Steve?” Bucky asked, keeping Steve steady.

Steve sighed. As if he could answer in any way Bucky would understand? He couldn’t even hold a pen in his paw — assuming he hadn’t broken anything when he’d kicked the damn shield. Just thinking about his paw made the ache ten times worse, and a quiet whimper escaped, despite his effort to be stoic about the whole fur-thing.

“Idiot.” Bucky’s exasperated sigh stripped away seventy-plus years, and Steve had to close his eyes before he found out the hard way whether or not dogs could cry. Gentle hands moved from his sides to his aching paw, pressing gently, feeling along the bones. A twinge of pain made Steve flinch, but apparently Project Rebirth’s effects were still active. If there was a bruise under that fur, it was healing.

Unable to express his gratitude through speech, Steve touched his nose to Bucky’s face. Bucky flinched, giving a nervous little laugh, and Steve remembered his nose was wet and cold.

He opened his mouth in a doggie-grin, then poked his nose against Bucky’s cheek again. Bucky’s laugh — real and genuine and just like the old days — was a better reward than anything Steve could imagine.

“Stop!” Bucky twisted a shoulder, playfully blocking. He rubbed at Steve’s paw for another second, then let go.

Steve laughed — or tried to, anyway. It came out like a series of short, huffed barks, but Bucky seemed to understand, judging by his grin. Steve nosed at Bucky’s face again, and some mad canine instinct made him lash out with his tongue, licking from Bucky’s jaw to his cheekbone.

That got him a hug in return, tight enough to choke off his breath, but he couldn’t pull away. He surged forward instead, climbing onto Bucky’s lap, getting his front paws over Bucky’s shoulders

 _Bucky_. Steve had wanted this day for months — for _years_ — and now Bucky was here with him, safe and alive and _aware_. Steve’s breath came in sharp little pants, and his back half was wobbly from how hard his tail was wagging, and all he could do was try to climb even further into Bucky’s strong, solid arms.

“Steve. You damn idiot,” Bucky whispered, fingers scratching against Steve’s skin. “This was that Asgardian, Loki, wasn’t it?”

Steve didn’t want to move his head off Bucky’s shoulder to nod. Instead, he sighed and twisted his bottom half sideways so he could sit. That didn’t stop his tail from wagging — it had a mind of its own — but it prevented the wagging from throwing him off-balance even more.

“You _had_ to run in on your own, didn’t you? Couldn’t wait for your team?” The old, familiar exasperation was back in his voice.

In Steve’s timeline, it had only been a few years since Bucky had last yelled at him for doing something stupid in combat. All that was missing was the rest of the team laughing their asses off outside the tent while Bucky yelled at their supposed commanding officer — as if they weren’t all equally crazy.

Maybe this whole dog thing was a blessing. Steve didn’t have to come up with excuses that’d inevitably get feebler by the minute. No awkward explanations. No prying questions. He just had to sit there in Bucky’s lap and revel in having Bucky — _his_ Bucky — back with him.

And Bucky wasn’t pushing him away or yelling at him. He sat there as if he’d be content to hold Steve on his lap forever. The way he petted Steve’s fur — and wasn’t _that_ a weird thought? — was soothing, probably to them both. Steve’s sharp ears could hear the low thrum of Bucky’s heart, slow and steady.

But they couldn’t stay here forever — not with Loki still on the loose, even though Steve could hear the distant sound of familiar combat. Iron Man’s repulsors and Thor’s thunder-cracks were loud enough to carry through all of Central Park. Thankfully, Hawkeye, Widow, and Falcon were quieter, or the whole team would be a noise hazard.

As a dog, Steve wasn’t going to contribute a damned thing to the fight, and when he finally introduced Bucky to the Avengers, he wanted to be there to intervene if things went poorly. So he nosed affectionately at Bucky’s ear and stood up as best he could without stepping on Bucky’s... well, _anything_.

It seemed to take forever to get all his legs sorted out, and his tail — which wouldn’t stop wagging — kept making his back half wobble, but he finally got off Bucky’s lap. Automatically, he reached for the shield, only to hesitate when he saw a paw instead of a hand. _Shit_. How could he keep forgetting he was a damned dog?

Bucky laughed — Steve would _never_ get sick of hearing that sound — and said, “I’ll get that “ He took off his leather jacket, revealing a hooded sweatshirt underneath, and Steve couldn’t help but stare. Even after everything that had happened, in his mind, Bucky was still the sharp-dressed ladies’ man he’d always been. Now, though, he looked like he was either homeless or worked in a coffee shop. (Sadly, Steve couldn’t always tell the difference.)

After putting on a pair of leather gloves, Bucky wrapped the shield in his jacket and tucked it awkwardly under his left arm. He started north, away from the ongoing battle, but Steve threw himself in Bucky’s path to block him.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, frowning down at Steve, who heaved out a sigh. How could he explain city leash laws without a proper mouth to speak? Not that either of them had a leash on hand to begin with.

But Bucky did have a belt, even though most people these days didn’t bother. Steve lifted a paw to point to it, but his body didn’t bend that way, so he ended up shoving his muzzle into Bucky’s waist. Laughing, Bucky shoved his head back and scratched behind his ears — a special sort of bliss that Steve wouldn’t mind exploring some other time, before Loki noticed them and turned Bucky into a pigeon or something. Carefully, Steve nipped at the belt, missed and hit the sweatshirt instead, tried again, and finally scored the leather belt with one fang.

It tasted good. Really good. Shoes would probably taste equally good.

 _Stop thinking like a dog!_ He shook his head, ears flapping, then nipped at the belt again. A good tug, and Bucky seemed to get the idea, asking, “Do you want this? I can’t rig something for you to carry your shield, Steve. And I’m not letting you go into a fight like that. You’re not even a fighting dog. You’re a damn golden retriever.”

Steve’s ears went flat in a doggie version of a wince. A _golden retriever?_ Yeah, that was better than a cockapoo or something, but a _golden retriever?_ He was a soldier. Why wasn’t he a German shepherd or rottweiler or something?

Bucky was still talking, the sort of rambling monologue people aimed at pets in need of comfort or amusement, which wasn’t helping Steve’s still-very-human ego. Frustrated, he tugged at the belt again.

“Okay, okay.” Bucky surrendered, setting the shield down so he could take off his belt. He doubled it and offered it to Steve, who had to fight the overwhelming smell of leather and Bucky. He kept his mouth clamped shut and nosed under the belt loop, trying to shove his head in.

 _Come on, Buck_ , he thought. Bucky had always been the smart one, better at math and science than Steve was at art. And more than just book-smart, he was clever.

Steve couldn’t help answering Bucky’s sudden grin with one of his own. “Right,” Bucky said, pulling the tongue of the belt through the buckle. He got the loop around Steve’s head and frowned. “If I hold onto this and you pull away...”

 _It’s fine_. Steve couldn’t figure out how to say it, except to wag his tail, which was harder than it seemed, when he actually thought about doing it intentionally.

“Were _you_ wearing a belt?” Bucky asked, holding onto the very tip of the belt to give Steve as much slack as possible. “Boot laces, maybe?”

Steve started to nod, but... Where were his clothes, anyway? He’d come to with the shield in paw’s reach, but his clothes were nowhere to be found. Had they been magically transformed with his body, or had they just been disintegrated? Hopefully they’d just been transformed. He’d just managed to break in those boots.

Bucky sighed and ruffled Steve’s fur again. It was probably wrong and improper and awkward, but Steve didn’t mind the affection. Not at all. It felt like the old days, walking arm-in-arm, laughing and roughhousing. Except now, Bucky was still the Winter Soldier, at least in part, and Steve was a dog.

 _He’s back._ That was what mattered. Skin or fur, assassin or soldier or best friend, none of that mattered. Steve pawed at the shield, making it rock.

“Okay. Let’s get you out of here,” Bucky said. He picked up the shield, rearranged the jacket, and took a step, one eye on the makeshift leash. Steve got his feet moving, at first in the wrong order, but Bucky was patient and walked slowly enough for Steve to get the hang of a four-footed gait.

And by the time they reached one of the jogging paths, it felt almost like the old days, best friends walking side-by-side, bodies bumping together with every other step.


	2. Chapter 2

Invisibility was easy, at the height of Manhattan’s rush hour. The streets were so crowded, Bucky could’ve been walking with a polar bear and no one would’ve blinked. A golden retriever with a belt for a leash? Even the two cops Bucky passed didn’t care.

He had three safehouses in Manhattan. The most livable was also the most dangerous — the one closest to Avengers Tower — but he judged the risk to be manageable. He’d been living there undetected for weeks, keeping watch over Steve as best he could. And he’d taken out three separate HYDRA hit squads sent to infiltrate the Tower, without ever being spotted.

Despite training and programming that had gone so deep as to become instinct, he also didn’t hesitate to show Steve the clean route to the safehouse, avoiding every single camera — ones at red lights, ATMs, shops, banks, office buildings, and a few particularly paranoid local residents. No matter what happened, Steve wouldn’t betray Bucky.

The building entrance was around the corner from Avengers Tower. Bucky had acquired the property without paperwork, so he had no idea if dogs were technically allowed inside the building. There was no doorman — one of the reasons he’d chosen this building — but he hurried Steve inside anyway, through the foyer and up the hall to the staircase. With two elevators available, hardly anyone ever used the stairs. Less chance of meeting a nosy neighbor to complain of an unlicensed dog.

When they reached the top floor, Bucky held the staircase door for Steve and said, “Almost there. I have the whole floor.”

Steve cocked his head, looking up curiously at Bucky, who shrugged.

“Neighbors are a security risk.” Bucky’s smile was just a little grim. “And the government didn’t confiscate a tenth of HYDRA’s accounts.”

Steve nodded, leaning his body against Bucky’s legs as Bucky removed the makeshift collar and leash. Bucky ruffled up the fur that had been flattened by the belt, then led the way down the hall.

The first four doors were all trapped with outward-facing anti-personnel mines, as was the sixth. Bucky went to door number five and used his left hand to insert his key, completing a circuit between the power source in his arm and the apartment’s alarm system. The door locks disengaged, and the security system powered down to standby.

“We’re safe inside, but don’t touch the door,” he warned, holding the door open.

Steve trotted inside, looking around with interest. Had he expected this subtly upscale apartment with its comfortable furniture and expensive TV? Had he expected a military barracks? A run down, abandoned ruin?

“You weren’t hurt, right?” Bucky asked before realizing it was too complex a question to be answered with a wag of the tail. He uncovered Steve’s shield and tossed it onto the couch, then hung up his jacket. “Were you hurt?”

Steve shook his head and came back to Bucky’s side, nosing at his hand. Bucky crouched down and hugged Steve close, burying his face against fur that he could almost imagine was Steve’s fine blond hair. Steve’s muzzle rested on his shoulder, and they stayed there for long seconds that turned into minutes, until Bucky remembered just how bad Steve was at taking care of himself.

“Hey.” Bucky’s voice had gone rough, and he cleared his throat. “Go sit down. Let me get you something to drink. Are you hungry? I have food.”

Not that Bucky was going to take Steve’s deep sigh for an answer. He gave Steve a shove toward the couch and went for the kitchen. He didn’t have dog food, but Steve wasn’t really a dog. But as a skinny little human, he’d liked meat — Bucky remembered that much — so he took a package of hamburger patties out of the freezer.

At the first click of toenails on the tile floor in the kitchen, he said, “Go sit down, Steve. You probably need rest. It can’t be healthy, being turned into a dog.”

The click of toenails receded. Bucky put two frying pans on the stove, mentally calculating how many hamburger patties he could fit on each one. He’d bought thick, crusty rolls just a couple of days ago, but would Steve want one? He had no hands to hold up the hamburger to begin with.

Bucky was overthinking this. He just needed to get food into Steve, make sure he was rested and comfortable, and then...

_And then, figure out how the hell to turn his best friend back into a human._

This was probably going to call for more than just hamburgers.

 

~~~

 

Since when did Bucky know how to cook?

Steve knew how — he’d had to learn early on, when his mom had taken extra shifts at the hospital — but Bucky had grown up with a whole family. His mom and sisters had done everything in the kitchen. A couple of times, Steve had stayed at Bucky’s house when the rest of the Barnes family went on vacation, and Steve had made sure he and Bucky didn’t starve.

Well, that was last century. He had no idea what Bucky had been doing —

No, he _did_ have some idea. He and Sam had broken into enough HYDRA strongholds to have put together a rough sketch of the Winter Soldier’s missions. But since HYDRA’s fall? _That_ part of Bucky’s life was a complete mystery.

Unable to ask for information, Steve just lay on the kitchen floor (which was surprisingly comfortable), drinking in the sight of Bucky being domestic instead of trying to kill him and all his friends.

There was a thought. They could invite the Avengers over for a barbecue to introduce Bucky in a peaceful, non-combat situation.

“What’s so funny?” Bucky asked, grinning down at Steve, who blinked in surprise. How did Bucky know what he’d been thinking?

A faint _thump-thump-thump_ answered that question. The wagging tail gave away Steve’s happy mood. Worse, he couldn’t stop it. His tail seemed to have a mind of its own.

His tail only stopped wagging when Bucky went back to cooking, probably because the smell of hamburgers was pushing all other thoughts out of Steve’s mind. Even though he’d had a good lunch — Clint could always be depended on to find the best obscure pizza places — he was starving. Maybe Bucky was right: the transformation had taken a lot of energy.

By the time Bucky had divided far too many patties onto two plates, Steve’s stomach was rumbling. Instead of lowering one of the plates in reach of Steve’s too-short frame, Bucky sliced a couple of rolls in half, then actually asked, “You want ketchup or mustard or something?”

Steve’s attempt at answering came out as a whine that would’ve been embarrassing any other day. Bucky’s answering laugh was warm and affectionate, making Steve’s tail start up again. Instead of going for the fridge, Bucky carried both plates to the living room, with Steve scrambling after him.

“I’ve only got water to drink. That okay?” Bucky asked as he put the plates on the coffee table. Hesitantly, he added,  “And, uh, I guess you’ll need a bowl...”

Good to know this was as weird for Bucky as it was for Steve. With an encouraging nod, Steve jumped up onto the couch and got all of his legs folded comfortably under him. But the instant Bucky was out of sight, Steve sniffed the air and stretched his neck, getting his muzzle close to the two plates. He guessed Bucky had cooked the burgers medium-rare, just enough to get them thawed and warmed — unlike Tony, whose last effort at barbecuing had involved liquid oxygen, three fire-extinguishing robots, and a hasty call to a Chinese delivery place.

Off-balance, Steve dropped his front legs onto the floor and bumped his muzzle against the food on the closest plate. Automatically, he swiped his tongue over his nose, and that little hint of flavor was all it took. He snapped his teeth on the pile of hamburger patties, pulling one into his mouth and dragging the other onto the coffee table. He told himself to chew, to savor the taste, to politely wait for Bucky to return, but the first burger disappeared in two swallows. The second took three.

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Bucky asked, setting a bowl down on the coffee table.

Steve stopped chewing and blinked up at Bucky, only then realizing how ridiculous this was. His back half was still lying on the couch, his front half was standing on the floor, and he had hamburger bits scattered all over his muzzle. He swallowed, ears flat with embarrassment.

Bucky laughed and stepped over Steve’s body to get to the other side of the couch. “Go on. Told you, you were hungry.”

For a few blissful minutes, the only sounds were chewing and the rustle of Steve’s tail against the upholstery. He had to slither off the couch and halfway onto the coffee table to get close to the bowl of water, and his first attempts at drinking left him sneezing water out of his inconveniently-placed nose. Blinking frantically, Steve shook his head, ears flapping wildly as he snorted.

“Hey. Easy,” Bucky said, his voice tight with the effort not to laugh. He put down his burger and moved closer, throwing one arm around Steve’s body. “Don’t stick your whole face in there.”

Steve huffed in frustration — why the _hell_ had that bastard turned him into a dog? — and cautiously stuck out his tongue. It took him a few seconds to get the hang of scooping water into his mouth, which was a terribly inefficient way to drink, but he eventually managed to get more water into his gut than onto the table.

Once Steve was done drinking, Bucky backed off and picked up his burger. Shivering at the absence of Bucky’s warmth, Steve pushed himself awkwardly back up onto the couch — _Damn all these legs!_ — and leaned insistently against Bucky’s side until Bucky’s arm returned to where it should be, soothing Steve better than a two-week vacation. Not that he’d ever had a two-week vacation.

But really, maybe this whole dog thing wasn’t so bad after all. It felt as natural as breathing to snuggle close against Bucky’s side, to ease down onto the couch and rest his head on Bucky’s leg. Bucky tangled his fingers in Steve’s fur and ate the rest of his burger one-handed, while Steve watched intently, telling himself it wasn’t out of hope that Bucky would share with a perpetually hungry best-friend-turned-dog but to watch the dexterity of those metal fingers.

“So, you sure you’re not hurt?” Bucky asked when he was finished.

Steve nodded and crawled further onto Bucky’s lap, just in case he started getting any ideas about leaving. Then, figuring he might try for a little more advanced communication, he nosed at Bucky’s metal arm and gave a questioning whine.

Bucky spread his fingers and turned his hand so light glinted off the curved metal. The mechanisms in the arm were almost silent, even to Steve’s super-soldier-turned-dog hearing. “Are you asking if it hurts?”

Steve’s attempt at a shrug turned into a whole-body shudder. Bucky’s other hand scratched behind Steve’s ears.

“It doesn’t,” Bucky said quietly. “I can feel... feedback. Pressure, temperature, even electromagnetic fields. I can follow a live electrical wire buried inside a wall. But there’s no pain, even when it’s damaged.”

Steve sighed in relief and flopped onto his side, draped over Bucky’s right leg. His canine body was surprisingly flexible; he could get comfortable in almost any position. This was better than a chiropractor. Lazily, he nosed at Bucky’s arm again.

“That a hint to pet you or more questions?” Bucky gave Steve’s ear a gentle tug, then got down to the two-handed petting, which was four times better than one. “This is the fourth one I remember. Every time, the tech was more advanced; the neural feedback, more accurate.”

Relieved that Bucky wasn’t in pain, Steve nodded. He wanted to ask about Bucky’s memory, his past, whether or not he was coping with what he’d been forced to do over the years. Steve wanted to talk about everything he’d learned from Sam about PTSD, the transition from military to civilian life, going from a battlefield to a life that was supposed to be safe and secure but instead was full of all new threats.

Instead, he pawed at the cushions and shoved his body all the way across Bucky’s lap, offering comfort and reassurance the only way he could.


	3. Chapter 3

_Since when do you snore?_ Bucky grinned fondly down at the golden retriever draped bonelessly across his lap, head thrown back, snoring loudly enough to drown out the TV. He had a sketchy memory of Steve’s breathing always being too loud, too shallow, but not this. Not deep, resonant snores so heavy they made his canine bones vibrate.

And his tongue was sticking out the side of his muzzle. Bucky spent ten straight minutes fighting the urge to pull on it, until Steve abruptly licked his nose, then sneezed.

“You okay there?” Bucky asked, trying not to laugh. Steve had always been so sensitive about people laughing at him — hadn’t he?

Steve licked at his muzzle, lips curled in distaste, and nodded, head scraping against Bucky’s jeans.

Bucky scratched at Steve’s back, saying, “You crashed hard. Been out about twenty minutes. If you need to sleep more, go ahead.”

Steve shook his head and stretched, limbs stiff, back arched. The stretch melted into a yawn, and this time, Bucky couldn’t resist flicking a finger across the tip of Steve’s tongue. Steve huffed and jerked back, giving Bucky a look that was probably supposed to be stern — physically impossible for a golden retriever.

Bucky grinned. “You hungry again? You used to always be hungry.”

That got him a deep sigh as Steve settled back down. His tail was still wagging, though it seemed more lazy now, relaxed and comfortable.

“I worry about you,” Bucky admitted, thinking of his surveillance cameras and drones, the systems he’d hacked to steal security feeds, all the steps he’d taken to keep watch over Steve. He’d gone so far to protect Steve, but he hadn’t been able to make contact with him — not until now.

At least Steve had only been turned into a dog. His fate could’ve been significantly worse. No blood, no broken bones, no screams of pain. Just fur.

Steve nosed at Bucky’s metal hand, activating the pressure sensors. It was hard to tell, but he looked worried, ears flat, eyes wide.

He seemed to be saying, _I worry about you, too_.

For months, Bucky had lived in little flashes of memory and awareness. He’d slept rough and scavenged food from trash cans. He’d holed up in HYDRA safehouses, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies, and licked his wounds until his not-quite-human body healed enough for him to execute his next step toward revenge. Every day, he’d recovered a little more of himself, reinforcing his memory with outside knowledge — everything he could learn about the man from the helicarrier. The Smithsonian’s exhibit. Newspaper articles. Books. Websites.

It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to learn to distinguish between facts and fantasy. Steve’s fans seemed to enjoy speculating about a torrid love affair between Steve and Black Widow — and, over the last few months, between Steve and “the mysterious Falcon.”

Bucky still hadn’t entirely parsed out why those stories made him so uncomfortable — or why he’d been so pleased, upon finding out that they were all “real person fiction” instead of factual reports.

But for now, there was no point in bringing up any of that. Now that he wasn’t being put back into cryo the instant a mission ended, his body was slowly healing its scars, and his returning memory was drowning out the flashes of hell that had been his life under HYDRA. And now, having Steve here was the best possible balm for him — mind and soul.

He cupped Steve’s muzzle in his hand and leaned down, looking directly into Steve’s eyes. “I’m okay, Steve. I’m okay.”

Steve pressed his face against Bucky’s palm, tail thumping against the couch.

Bucky sighed. “I would’ve made contact with you. Soon,” he added, hoping it wasn’t a lie. “And I was watching you. Trying to keep you safe.”

Steve tipped his head, ears perked curiously.

“Surveillance cameras. Secure locations wherever you go — here, near your house in Brooklyn, in the field.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “You’re still in the habit of doing _really stupid shit_ , pal. There’s a whole display about you jumping on a grenade in Basic.”

Steve’s tail stopped, and he whined.

Bucky sat forward, gripping Steve’s muzzle more securely. “And what the hell was that, with you jumping out an elevator? There’s footage of it on YouTube. It’s tough to see, but I recognize that damned shield of yours. You fell _twenty storeys_ , Steve. What the hell?”

Ears flat, Steve whined again, looking away.

“Once you’re back to being yourself, we’re going to have a long talk — a _very long talk_ — about you trying to get yourself killed, understand?” Bucky warned, lifting Steve’s head to force eye-contact again.

Steve twitched his head in a little nod.

Bucky let go of Steve’s muzzle and gathered Steve into his arms. With a quiet sigh, Steve rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder and nuzzled against his neck. Eyes closed, Bucky hugged Steve tightly and whispered, “Idiot.”

 

~~~

 

By the time they finished a couple of movies — the first and second _Star Wars_ , which were actually movies four and five, because the modern world was a complete mess like that — Bucky, at least, was tired; Steve had napped during the slow parts. Between movies, Bucky had heated up a box of frozen miniature pizzas that were more chemical than food but tasted addictively good. Steve apparently agreed; he ate three-quarters of the box.

“You’ll stay here until you’re back to normal, right?” Bucky asked as he turned off the TV.

Steve nodded, tail wagging, and yawned. Tiredly, he oozed off the couch one foot at a time, turning it into a stretch as he dragged his hind foot down. Bucky rubbed his hands up and down Steve’s back and got a doggie grin in return.

“We’ll have to share a bed. I’ve only got the one, unless you want the couch,” Bucky said. A little shiver shot through him at the thought, even though he and Steve had shared a bed a dozen times as kids. They’d only stopped when Bucky had grown so tall and broad-shouldered that Steve, skinny as he’d been, could no longer fit. A memory flickered through Bucky’s brain — both of them sprawled on a nest of couch cushions and pillows — but it was hazy, almost unreal, as if Bucky had _thought_ about it but never actually experienced it.

Then those stories came to mind. Steve and Black Widow. Steve and Falcon. Bucky shifted uncomfortably and turned to lead the way to the bedroom. He wouldn’t let himself think about Steve that way — especially not while Steve wasn’t _human_.

“You can stay even after, you know,” he said a little incoherently, wanting to distract himself, though it backfired. Badly. He _wanted_ Steve to stay with him, to never leave his side again, and not just because Steve had zero sense of self-preservation and needed a full-time caretaker to stop him from rushing into battle unprepared. Bucky wanted _this_. He wanted to watch movies and share dinner and sprawl together on the couch. To talk about something other than tactics and HYDRA and the war that had never really ended — not for them.

Now he had a list of things he wouldn’t mind trying with Steve, thanks to those damned stories. In the dim recesses of memory, he recalled one girl after another, dancing and kissing and touching, but never anything more. And always, Steve was there, somewhere nearby, at the forefront of Bucky’s thoughts. Bucky suspected that more than once he’d walked away from a date to follow Steve home instead, without a single girl in sight.

Was he in love with his best friend?

Maybe. Maybe he’d always been.

Absently, he showed Steve the bathroom, then went to change into clean boxers and a T-shirt, but he’d barely got rid of his boots and handguns when he heard a loud _thump_. His heart skipped, and he rushed for the bathroom, though he stopped himself from throwing open the door. Instead, he tapped, calling, “Steve?”

A whine answered, so he pushed the door open. Steve was standing in front of the toilet, nosing at the lid, and Bucky realized the obvious problem.

“Can you even...?” Bucky went inside and so he could lift the lid and seat. “Would you rather go out?”

Steve’s ears went flat, and he glanced modestly away. Bucky had lived in trenches and barracks and been HYDRA’s pet assassin for almost a century, but Steve hadn’t.

“Okay.” Bucky frowned at the toilet, trying to figure out how Steve would manage, but nothing came to mind. Finally, he reached past Steve to turn on the shower, figuring if anything went too wrong, Steve could at least wash off in there. “Take all the time you need.”

Steve didn’t meet his eyes; he just nodded, tail drooping, and Bucky quickly left, closing the door behind himself. Guiltily, he sat down on the edge of the bed, mentally kicking himself for spending the night lounging around instead of working to restore Steve’s body to its proper form.

But where the hell would they start? Tony Stark’s technology? The other god, Thor? Some obscure knowledge that Black Widow might have?

All possibilities, but... that would mean Steve would go back to the Avengers, and Bucky didn’t want him to go. It was damned selfish, but Bucky would rather have Steve with him as a dog than go back to watching Steve’s life at a distance, never speaking, never touching.

It was a good twenty minutes before Steve barked quietly. Bucky went back to the bathroom, where he found a damp golden retriever with a towel in his mouth. Hint taken, Bucky sat down on the floor and rubbed the towel over Steve’s wet body, ending up with fur everywhere and Steve, still smelling of wet dog, in his lap.

“You want me to brush your teeth?” Bucky offered once Steve was mostly dry.

Steve gave him a look, ears flat, head cocked.

Bucky grinned. “Out, you. Take the near side of the bed,” he said, wanting himself between Steve and the window. He herded Steve out into the bedroom, then closed the door, turned off the shower, and got himself ready for sleep.

When he returned to the bedroom, he found Steve curled up on top of the blankets, nose tucked under his tail. The vigorous toweling had left him looking particularly fluffy.

“Under the blankets, genius. I keep it cold at night,” Bucky said, turning off the lights on his way around the bed, plunging the room into absolute darkness. He knew every inch of the apartment; the darkness gave him a tactical advantage over any intruders foolish enough to break in.

He got under the blankets and rolled onto his side to face Steve. Automatically, his metal hand sought out Steve’s warmth, and he rested his fingers on Steve’s ribs, sensors picking up the steady, fast heartbeat. The _thump-thump-thump_ sped up a bit when Steve wriggled closer; then it eased as he settled down once more.

Bucky resisted the urge to close the inches between them. The blankets were warm and heavy, and Steve had a coat of fur. Bucky didn’t want him to overheat.

“If you need anything, wake me up, okay?” Bucky asked very quietly. In answer, Steve’s fur rustled against the pillow — hopefully, that was a nod. Bucky scratched at Steve’s ribs, then flattened his hand again and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

It seemed only a few minutes had passed before Bucky woke up to a high-pitched, unfamiliar sound. He didn’t open his eyes or change the cadence of his breathing; he listened, allowing his senses to report, but only when he felt the sharp motion of ribs rise and fall under his metal hand did he remember.

_Steve. A golden retriever._

Steve whimpered again, body twitching hard, paws scraping against the sheets. Bucky propped up on his elbow, though the blackout curtains meant there was no light in the room. By feel, Bucky figured out that Steve had pulled the blankets halfway down, and his muzzle was shoved under the pillow, muffling his soft, high-pitched barks.

“Hey. Hey, Steve,” Bucky whispered, leaning close, unafraid of the possibility of getting bitten. “Steve, you’re okay —”

With a sharper bark, Steve jerked his head up, shoving the pillow aside. He kicked at the bed, and Bucky hugged him close, whispering softly, comfortingly, until Steve settled back down, panting.

“Easy. You’re okay, Steve.” Bucky pulled Steve into the curve of his body, arm wrapped around Steve’s ribs, and thoughtlessly kissed the back of Steve’s head, between his ears. Steve went still for a second, but then he let out a sigh and pressed back against Bucky. His tail wagged against the weight of the blanket, tickling Bucky’s legs, before he relaxed again.

Bucky usually slept lightly, alert to any sound or hint of danger. When he needed deeper sleep, he had powerful tranquilizers he could take, stolen from a zookeeper three states away, but he’d only use those when he knew Steve was safe at home, behind an alarm system that Tony Stark had designed.

But having Steve cuddled in his arms was better than any narcotic. Bucky crashed hard, knowing that there was no safer place in the world than beside his best friend, and he didn’t wake again until the body in his arms moved. Even then, he opened his eyes with a lazy, contented blink instead of jolting awake with a surge of adrenaline, and he hugged Steve close.

Then he realized that he felt skin, not fur, under his hands, and that he’d trapped a very human leg between his own. And though the morning sunlight couldn’t penetrate the closed curtains, he knew without needing to look that the hair tickling his nose was fine and dark blond.

Bucky was ninety-five percent recovered from what HYDRA had done to him, but sometimes, the modern world would throw something unexpected in his path, and he would shut down. The urge to report to his handlers was familiar. Chilling.

But it passed in seconds, leaving him very much aware of Steve’s body — Steve’s _naked_ body — pressed to his, from chests to knees. One of Steve’s hands was on his back, held so rigidly still that he practically vibrated.

“You’re back,” Bucky said roughly. He knew he should pull away, get out of bed, offer Steve a pair of pants, but he couldn’t.

Steve nodded and moved, but not back. He moved up instead, so his head was on the same pillow as Bucky’s, and the tops of his feet pressed against Bucky’s toes — a reminder that Steve was no longer short and skinny, no longer a golden retriever. He was tall and powerful, the man he’d always wanted to be, a man who’d turn heads as he walked down the street and command the attention of everyone, male or female, in any room he entered.

His hand pressed against Bucky’s ribs, keeping their bodies close. “ _You’re_ back,” he whispered. “Bucky.”

The sound of his name unclenched the fist around his lungs. He dragged in a breath and nodded. “Have been for a while.”

“Why didn’t...” Steve’s fingers twitched. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

This was the conversation Bucky had thought about last night, but now he couldn’t think about it. Grateful for the darkness that hid his expression, he said, “Because I was waiting for you to get in trouble. _Again_.”

“In trouble?” Steve asked indignantly. “It’s not _my_ fault —”

“Who rushed ahead of the rest of his team?” Bucky interrupted. “Who just jumped on his motorcycle and sped off at the first hint of trouble? Who _didn’t have a plan?_ ”

“Bucky —”

“It’s _what you do_ ,” Bucky cut in, warming to his subject. _This_ conversation, he’d been thinking about for months now, ever since Steve had given the order to shoot a helicarrier out from under himself. “You’re an idiot.”

“C’mon, Bucky,” Steve said, a hint of a dog-like whine in his voice. “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

“You got turned into a dog,” Bucky said flatly.

“But I’m not anymore.”

“You smacked yourself in the face with your shield.”

Steve flinched. “That —”

“You couldn’t even _walk_. What would you have done if Loki came after you?”

Steve shrugged. “I was perfectly safe. You were there.”

“You didn’t know...” was as far as Bucky got, because Steve inched closer, and Bucky’s brain just shut down.

“Last night,” Steve said quietly, “you asked if I was going to stay.”

Bucky nodded. He had to swallow before he could answer, “Yeah.”

“Now it’s my turn. Will _you_ stay?”

“You —” Bucky swallowed again. “You have your team.”

Steve shrugged, moving under Bucky’s hands. “ _You’re_ my team. You’re my best friend. You’re _mine_.”

The warmth that spread through Bucky all the way to his toes had nothing to do with blankets and body heat. He nodded, saying, “Then yeah. I’ll stay.”

Steve’s hand moved, sliding up over Bucky’s metal shoulder. Fingers brushed his hair back. A callused palm cupped his jaw. “I’ve missed you,” Steve whispered, so close now that his breath was hot against Bucky’s lips.

“Steve...”

“Missed me?” It came out almost too soft for Bucky to hear. He nodded, and Steve’s fingers rubbed over his stubble. “Not going anywhere, ever again.”

Bucky opened his mouth to say something — maybe just to say Steve’s name — but Steve silenced him, pressing his lips to Bucky’s, stealing his breath with a kiss. No memory sparked to life, no recollection of ever kissing Steve like this, and Bucky tightened his arms around Steve’s body, wanting to hold him close, to lock every second of this kiss deep into his mind. This had never happened before. How could he let himself think — hope — this would ever happen again?

It felt like a lifetime before Steve pulled away. Despite the darkness, Bucky could feel Steve staring at him. Was he having second thoughts? Did he regret kissing Bucky?

“Steve?”

“Was that —” Steve hesitated. “Was that okay?”

Bucky’s laugh was tight. “Yeah. Yeah, it was.”

Steve sighed and kissed Bucky again, this time light and quick, a brush of heat against his lips. “I missed you, Bucky. Not going anywhere — not ever again.”

 _Yes_.

“You’ll stay?” Bucky asked, even though he already knew the answer. He needed to hear it, though. He needed to hear Steve say —

“Not going anywhere,” Steve whispered.

“Good.” Bucky slid his hand up to the back of Steve’s neck. “Because I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

Steve flinched. “Look, it was a dummy grenade —”

“Did you know that?”

Steve’s silence was answer enough.

Bucky pulled Steve in for a kiss that was slow and sweet. Memories were returning now, memories of lipstick and perfume, making out in the dark corners of dance halls, furtive kisses outside front doors, wary of protective fathers. Bucky let his memory take control, seducing Steve with gentle, careful caresses of tongue and fingers and lips, until Steve was trembling against him.

“Idiot,” Bucky accused, though what he meant was _I love you_.

“Bucky!”

“ _Stupid_ idiot.” _I love you so much_.

Steve sighed. “I won’t do it again,” he said, and Bucky heard what he meant: _I love you, too_.


End file.
